The rules have changed and (AKA humans are no longer slaves, because they woke up) and this is an act of war against humanity.

Your people have been raped, abused, mind controlled, dream hacked, biologically cloned, mentally cloned, manipulated, and molested. Literally. Quite literally, by people who made a living by telling people what to do.

Hurin drew his short sword, holding it as if it might actually be of some use from horseback. “Begging your pardon, Lord Rand, but I think not. I don’t understand the tenth part of what I’ve heard … or what I’m seeing”—his voice dropped to a mutter before picking up again—“but I’ve come this far, and I think I’ll go the rest of the way.”

Artur Hawkwing clapped the sniffer on the shoulder. “Sometimes the Wheel adds to our number, friend. Perhaps you will find yourself among us, one day.” Hurin sat up as if he had been offered a crown. Hawkwing bowed formally from his saddle to Rand. “With your permission … Lord Rand. Trumpeter, will you give us music on the Horn? Fitting that the Horn of Valere should sing us into battle. Bannerman, will you advance?”

Mat sounded the Horn again, long and high—the mists rang with it—and Perrin heeled his horse forward. Rand drew the heron-mark blade and rode between them.”

Two things. I forget every time that I love Hurin and that he deserves all the honours in the world. And I find the image of the three ta’veren riding in front of the Heroes of the Horn beautiful.

“Why this is hell, nor am I out of it.
Think’st thou that I, who saw the face of God,
And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,
Am not tormented with ten thousand hells
In being deprived of everlasting bliss?”